


Hold Me Closer

by novelized



Category: Rocketman RPF
Genre: M/M, This was inevitable, boys being dumb boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 04:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18652960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novelized/pseuds/novelized
Summary: There is a well-known fact about on-camera kissing, which is that it’s very technical and fundamentally unsexy, but there is also a well-known fact about Taron, which is that he just really fucking loves to kiss.





	Hold Me Closer

There is a well-known fact about on-camera kissing, which is that it’s very technical and fundamentally unsexy, but there is also a well-known fact about Taron, which is that he just really fucking loves to kiss. There is a day that they tell him _you’re going to have to spend hours with Richard’s mouth glued to your own_ , and Taron, fresh out of a breakup and having not done much of it lately, buckles up and thinks _wonderful, then, let’s get started._ What does it matter that he’s a man, other than going home with stubble rash (that’s new) and chapped lips (that’s not)? He and Rich handle it like old pros, fire off jokes between makeout sessions, laugh hysterically through one take when he accidentally knees Richard in the groin. And it’s not—he’s not fantasizing about it, hours after the fact, but it wasn’t the worst-spent day in history, either.

Besides, he thinks, Elton would most certainly approve.

\---

There's an understated coffeeshop in London that Richard likes, because it’s tucked away enough that the hipsters haven’t yet descended upon it, and the regulars are all old enough that they don’t give a shit who either of them are. That’s where they meet, a few weeks after wrap, and take up a small table in the back. Richard was mostly quiet standing in line, and mostly quiet when they’d carried their drinks across the room, and still mostly quiet while they’d sat, and Taron had begun wondering why he’d even suggested they get together in the first place, if all he wanted was a hot coffee and a heavy bout of silence. Finally, though, Richard clears his throat.

“So I’ve got some news,” he says, cupping his mug in both hands. He pauses and considers, head tilted to the side. “Bit twofold, really.”

Taron’s popped the lid off his latte and is wondering if it’s too passé to post a picture of it on Instagram (the barista had done a lovely job, it deserved to be recognized) so he’s only half-listening to Richard, which he recognizes belatedly is not a very Good Friend thing to do. “Sorry,” he says, and looks up. “Big news? Lay it on me, then. Wait, no, don’t, let me guess: you’re pregnant... and it’s mine.”

“You're talented, Taron, but not that talented,” Richard says evenly. "Besides, if one of us had to carry a baby, it'd obviously be you."

Taron frowns and puts a hand on his stomach. He'd foregone the pastry with his coffee, which deserved some sort of award. “Can you imagine? All those hours at the gym wasted.”

“Not wasted, don’t say that. You’d be the fittest mummy at the playground.”

“Hang on, stop, I’m starting to imagine it, we’ve got to change the subject.” Taron gives his head a vigorous shake, as if that’ll make the mental picture disintegrate. It probably already exists on the internet. He resolves in that moment to never, ever look it up. Instead, he takes a foamy sip of his drink and channels all of his attention towards Richard. “Okay. Your news. I’m listening, I promise. Go ahead.”

Richard doesn’t spill right away, which makes Taron think that it might actually be serious. He sits up straighter and waits.

“Well, first,” Richard says at last, his eyebrows drawn in consternation, “is that I’m moving Stateside.”

“Oh no,” Taron moans, even though the announcement is much less grim than what he’d been fearing. Still, never one to shy away from dramatics, he drops his head into his arms in a pain-stricken bereaved widow sort of way. “They’ve snatched another good one. Abandoning your heritage for what, I ask you? What’s the draw?”

“Opportunity, mostly,” Richard says, very casually ignoring Taron’s display. Almost like he’d gotten used to him over the last year. How bizarre. He picks at a loose thread on his sweater and continues, without looking at Taron, “Oh, and I’ve started seeing someone.”

Taron lifts his head up in amazement, abandoning the act altogether. “You cheeky minx, I can’t believe you’ve kept that hidden from me. And she’s American? Go on, who is she?” 

Once again, Richard takes a moment to respond. He pinches his lips between his fingers—fluffy pillow lips, Taron’d once called them, and he stood by it today—and scrunches his forehead. “The thing is,” he starts, and then stops. He takes a breath through his nose. “The thing is, she’s not? A she?”

He’s phrasing it like a question and so Taron lifts his eyebrows. “Sorry,” he says slowly, and for once in his life he doesn’t make it into a joke. “She’s not a she? So she’s…”

Richard nods, even though Taron hadn’t articulated the thought or even, for that matter, finished formulating one. “Right. She’s more of a he.” He grins, finally, but it’s the sort that doesn’t reach his eyes. Taron wants to give him a puppy. A thousand puppies. Whatever it took to make him stop looking like that. “ _He’s_ a he, that is,” Richard amends. “I’m trying to say that it’s a guy.”

Taron laughs gently and reaches across the table, envelopes Richard’s hands in his own. Doesn’t even skip a beat. “Yeah, I’ve worked that out,” he says, and then, giving his fingers a squeeze, “That’s terrific, mate. Really. Couldn’t be happier for you.”

“Yeah?” Richard still looks unsure; Taron wonders if he’s told anyone else. If he’s even quite gotten used to it himself. “He’s a great lad. You’ll really like him.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Are you surprised?”

Taron couldn’t even begin to calculate the countless hours he’d spent with Richard over the last eighteen months. The long days, the all-nighters, the time he’d watched the Red Wedding on very little sleep and had gone crying to Richard’s room at some ungodly hour. The thousands of text messages and Instagram comments and the picture he’d found in his camera roll, on accident, once, when he’d borrowed Richard’s phone because his was dead—he _knows_ Richard, deeply, intimately, in a forever kind of way. He didn’t know this, no. But he can’t say he’s surprised.

“Not really,” he says, drops back in his seat in thought. “I mean, sort of. I guess it’s more that it just doesn’t matter to me.”

“I swear to God, Taron, if you say something about ‘my _happiness_ matters’—”

“Your _happiness_ matters,” Taron says loudly, drowning out Richard’s voice, annoyed that he’d interrupted his Supportive Best Friend speech. Richard laughs, a real laugh, and Taron immediately feels better. 

“Let me ask you this, though,” Taron goes on, and waves a finger around his own face. “Was it me? Did I cause your big Awakening? Romping around on that bed for hours, surely that had something to do with it?”

Richard pulls a face at him. “Mm, no. No, I can firmly say that had nothing to do with it. Might’ve sent me running in the opposite direction, actually, had I given it enough thought.”

Taron brings his coffee, now lukewarm, to his mouth and takes a spiteful drink. “I’m going to choose not to believe that,” he says, once he’s swallowed. Richard rolls his eyes, but Taron’s gotten very good at ignoring his eyerolls, if nothing else. “Just so you know. If anyone asks, I’m saying it was me.”

\---

Taron stumbles upon the photos on accident, and then he clicks “view slideshow” on accident, and then he spends a few careful moments combing through every page. Not much of an accident, that one. The internet’s all abuzz but there’s nothing that spectacular about them: it’s two guys out on a casual midday stroll, being hounded by the paps. The pictures aren’t even incriminating, except for maybe the marijuana cigarettes—but those are apparently legal in California and also, who the fuck cares.

He shoots Richard a message, alone in his London bedroom, wholly unaware of the time difference between them but not much bothered by it: _At what age is one classified a Cougar?_

Richard writes back right away. _Fuck off. xx_

Taron laughs and tucks his phone away. But not before glancing at the pictures one last time.

\---

And then.

And then Taron has a rare night off, no international flights or styled photoshoots or obligations at all, and even his mum has given him a stern directive to order takeaway and watch Netflix, as apparently he doesn’t do that enough. He complies, because it’s his _mum_ , but he’s already finished off the pad thai and is still listlessly clicking around for something to watch. His attention span isn’t great, these days. He blames the internet. 

He’s sort of forgotten about Bodyguard, which makes him a terrible friend, until the thumbnail pops up on his screen. It’s been on his to-do list for ages, but he can’t remember the last time he’d had even an hour to lay around and watch something. He presses play out of curiosity and the shot opens with a cascade of bullets and Richard's chiseled jawline and he thinks _fantastic_ and settles right on in.

He’s captivated at once. Of course he is—Rich hadn’t won a Golden Globe for nothing, but he’s still amazed by how quickly he’s invested. The first hour flies. He moves on to episode two without even bothering to get up and refill his drink. The writing is sharp; Richard’s scenes are electric. And then and then _and then._ The sex scene they’d been building towards finally happens, like the culmination of two painful hours of foreplay, and Taron’s mindlessly, unconsciously, distractedly slipping a hand in his pants, his eyes glued to the screen. It wasn’t a pointed response to the television. He’d jerked off to hundreds of TV shows throughout the years, because he was a guy and it didn’t take much, and it was absolutely normal, thank you, he’s pretty sure he’d busted a nut to Full House once, during a much younger time when his father was regularly checking his browsing history—but he’s not thinking about that, just as much as he’s not thinking of Richard, with his hand wrapped around his dick.

Only—he twists his wrist a certain way and his gaze flickers up to the ceiling, and he’s suddenly not watching Richard make love to a woman; he’s remembering Richard pressed against him, many moons ago, naked on an overplush bed in a room filled with cameras. He’s remembering the drag of Richard’s stubble against his cheek, and his breath hot and heavy on his neck, and laughing against his shoulder with his arse out for the whole world to see, and his pace picks up, and his eyes flutter shut, and suddenly his hand is Richard’s hand, tightening around him, and they’d never done _this_ but it feels—right. He’d like to say he’s not thinking of Richard’s mouth trailing along his skin when he comes, right there on his living room couch, except that he most certainly is.

Afterwards, he fumbles with the remote and presses pause, and of course it freezes on Richard’s stupidly handsome face. Like he’s mocking him. Like somehow, across the pond, he knows. 

“Ah, shit,” Taron says to the ceiling. He lets out a long, slow exhale and tries not think about the implications of whatever the fuck’s just happened, because he’s not sure he can deal with it right now.

The ceiling, of course, says nothing back.

\---

Richard flies in a day earlier than strictly necessary, because, he says, he wants a proper night out before things turn to chaos. Taron’d done a bang of a job not Googling him the past few weeks, although the text messages and Instagram posts had stayed consistently inconspicuous. He’d almost, almost been able to put the whole mess out of his mind.

He’s three drinks deep when Rich arrives, which had seemed like a stellar idea at the time, but less stellar when Richard wraps him up in a full-bodied hug and says, “Started the party without me, have you?” because he smells clean and minty and looks great, of course, that GQ motherfucker.

“Knew I’d have to,” Taron says, clapping him on the back and then letting go, maybe a few moments shy of what he’d have normally done, “what with you being such a lightweight and all. Trying to level the playing field. Quite kind of me, really.”

“Oh, yes, remarkably generous, remind me to worship you later,” Richard says, and he pries the glass from Taron’s hand—doesn’t even ask what’s in it—and throws it back in one clean gulp. Taron watches his throat pull, and then he stops watching. He looks very resolutely at the wall.

Richard sets the empty cup on the counter and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Missed you, mate,” he says, his voice a touch softer, and gives Taron’s elbow a light squeeze. “It’s good to be back.”

“Good to have you back,” Taron agrees, fighting to keep the overwrought sincerity off his face. Goddamn it. “Been a little too quiet around these parts, if you ask me.”

“Well then. Let’s get going, shall we?”

\---

The pubs they used to frequent feel off-limits now; Richard’s carrying around his metaphorical Golden Globe (and Taron wonders, casually, if the actual one’s in the bedroom he shares with his lad back in LA) and although Richard’s always been infuriatingly humble, they both seem to realize what the weight of it means. It is super fun to be super famous, until, of course, it isn’t. Taron has no desire to be recognized tonight.

Luckily, he knows a guy who knows a place, and they end up squished onto the farthest barstools in a dingy tavern, nursing whiskeys and catching up on the last few weeks. Richard shows him pictures of the pup he’s living with. Taron pretends he hadn’t already seen it online.

“So what about you?” Richard says, nudging him in the ribs. “Other than appearing on every magazine cover in existence, what’ve you been up to? You’re back on the market, yeah?”

Taron scoffs. “As if I had time for that nonsense.”

“You’ll never just _have_ time, not with the way your career is headed,” Richard tells him, and Taron can’t tell if he actually sounds like the wise old wizard from some Disney film, or if that’s just the alcohol talking. “You’ve got to _make_ time.”

“Well, maybe I’m not willing to make time.”

“Shame. Such a pretty mouth, gone to waste.” Richard reaches forward like he’s going to pinch Taron’s lips but Taron knocks his hand away first. Without spilling a drop, natch. He makes a face at Richard and Richard makes a face back and all he can think is how good, how easy, it is to be sitting here with him. The two of them, together. And so what if he’d entertained some naughty thoughts about him once, after practically having him shoved in his face for the better part of a year—who on earth hadn’t? It didn’t _actually_ mean anything. Taron was straight and Richard had a pretty American boy and that was the end of that.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

He hadn’t even realized he’d been staring at Richard until he’s pulled out of it, shaking his head and setting his glass down on the bar. “Not worth a penny. Might be time to stop drinking, is all. I am—what is it you elderly people like to say? Three sheets to the wind.”

“Elderly people? I’m barely three years older than you.”

“Not that you’re counting.”

Richard gives him a meaningful look. “Not that I’m counting.”

Taron wishes he hadn’t put his drink down, because now he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Was he always so… ungainly? Richard was never ungainly. He was the gainliest chap he’d ever met.

“You _are_ drunk,” Richard says in wonderment, a grin lighting up his face. “You’ve been staring at me so much I’ve been wondering if I’ve got food stuck in my teeth, but no, you just can’t hold your liquor.”

Taron scowls at him. “Don’t sound so smug. You’re the one that’s going to have to chauffeur me on the way back to your hotel.”

There’s a beat, and then Richard’s eyebrows lift. “Didn’t book a hotel.”

“No? Planning on sleeping in the car, were you?”

“I _thought_ ,” Richard says, “that a very good friend of mine might be so gracious as to allow me to sleep in his spare bedroom. And in return I might make his hungover arse beans and toast for breakfast.”

Taron taps a finger against his chin, in careful contemplation. “Breakfast _is_ my favorite meal.”

“It’s settled then. You pay the tab, I’ll pull the car ‘round front.”

And before Taron even has time to argue, Richard’s hopped off his stool and is gone out the front door, humming _Tiny Dancer_ under his breath as he goes.

“Bastard,” Taron mumbles, even though he doesn’t mean it.

He reaches for his wallet.

\---

Back at his flat, Richard pours himself a drink (“still playing catch-up,” he explains, and kindly brings Taron a glass of water) and they sit on the couch, knees brushing together. The very same couch where Taron’d jerked himself off, just weeks before, Richard rugged and mysterious on the telly above. Taron’s face goes warm at the memory and he shifts his leg away. Richard frowns.

“Okay,” he says, clasping his hands together, “I’m just going to say it, T. You’re acting strange.”

“I am not,” Taron says back, straight away, sounding every bit a petulant twelve-year-old. Might as well cross his arms and pout, for as well he’s handling this. It’s pathetic.

“You are.” Richard leans forward and tugs the glass out of his grip, sets it down. “All night, you’ve been a little… cagey. What’s going on?”

“Nothing, I—”

He is, blissfully, saved by an obnoxious ringtone, going off at exactly the right moment. Richard shoots him an apologetic look and digs his mobile out of his pocket, glances at the screen, silences it, and shoves it back in.

“You could’ve taken it,” Taron tells him.

“No need.”

“No, really, you could’ve. Was it—your boyfriend?”

It is, Taron realizes, the first time he’s said those words aloud. It must’ve struck Richard as odd, too, because his expression unclouds and he laughs.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” he says.

“Sure, sure, it’s the 21st century, we’re all anti-labels these days, I get it—”

“No,” Richard says, clearly amused, “I mean, he’s _not_ my boyfriend. He’s not anything, these days. Just a friend.”

Taron opens his mouth, and then closes it. And opens it again. “Oh,” he says, at last, sounding very intellectual. “Er. I’m sorry to hear that, Rich. Was it, y’know, mutual?”

“He dumped me,” Richard says, and Taron winces in sympathy. But he doesn’t look tore up about it, is the thing. Doesn’t even lose his grin. “Did it very amicably and all. I’m still staying in his guest room. It just wasn’t quite working. He seems to think I’m—” Richard breaks off, here, and his voice drops, more serious. He brings his eyes up to the ceiling. “He seems to think I’m hung up on somebody else.”

Taron barely has time to breathe these days, let alone chase after _two_ separate people, and he’s wondering where Richard even finds the stamina, and he’s about to ask, but then Richard pulls his gaze back down, and they make eye contact, and—oh.

Oh.

“Oh,” Taron says, again.

Richard lets out another laugh, this one a touch uncomfortable. “Perhaps,” he says, “I shouldn’t have made myself another drink, after all.”

There are a million brazen thoughts running through Taron’s mind. The sincerity is killing him. _Richard_ is killing him, sitting in his living room, handsome and funny and off-limits, he’d thought, their entire friendship, up until now.

But maybe not.

“Perhaps,” Taron echoes back, sounding more confident than he feels, “but I’m quite glad you did.” 

The silence around them is so thick that Taron feels he could snap it in half. Richard’s eyes are so _blue._ They’re asking a million questions that Taron can’t answer with words, doesn’t have the vocabulary, so he reaches out a hand and lets it rest on Richard’s knee. Hoping that’s answer enough.

“Taron,” Richard says softly, “are you sure?”

It is not difficult, he finds, to be sure. 

“You really hung up on me?” he teases, and Richard gives him the world’s heaviest eyeroll.

“Knew I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t let it go to your head.”

In one smooth motion Taron climbs up, swings his legs over Richard’s hips, settles down quite comfortably in Richard’s lap. He’d sat like this, in Elton costume, on top of Richard a dozen times before. This was very different. “You’ve been pining, have you?” he asks, raking his fingers through Richard’s hair.

Richard tips his head back into the touch. “Look who’s talking,” he says, and drops a hand to the small of Taron’s back. His fingers dip under the hem of his shirt, scrape along his skin. “Who’s given who the big Awakening now, hm?”

Taron dutifully ignores the insinuation. “I’m going to kiss you,” he announces, and only hears the ghost of a groaned _yes please_ before pressing his lips to Richard’s, and Richard reacts at once, pushes up into the kiss without an ounce of hesitation.

Enjoyable as all kissing is, this is nothing like kissing on-camera.

It is so much fucking better.

On set they were told which ways to move their heads, where their hands belonged, what noises to make and how to make them—but here, now, it’s just second nature. Taron kisses him deeply, heatedly, learns new facts about his body: the throaty moan that escapes when he bites down on his bottom lip, the way his skin flares with goosebumps when he gives his hair a gentle tug. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and don’t stop until Richard pulls away, and Taron’s lit with disappointment until Richard says, “Hang on, just a sec,” and flips them—smoothly, cleanly, like every minute spent at the gym had been in preparation for this—around on the couch, so Taron’s on his back and Richard’s bracing over him. “That’s better,” he says, smirking, and his hand toys with the top button on Taron’s shirt.

“So that whole gentleman thing is just an act, eh?” Taron says, tugging him closer, their bodies flush together.

Richard smirks and says, “That depends, Taron, d’you want it to be?”

It’s his first _real_ time with a man but it’s both strange and not strange—inevitable, almost. Wonderful. His nerves are on fire. “Think I’d like to be naked, now,” he says, in response, and Richard wastes no time in working his shirt open. He leans down to kiss him between every third button, slow and lingering, and he runs callused fingers along Taron’s sides, and Taron’s hips lift to meet Richard’s entirely on their own accord.

“Do you think we should move this to the bedroom?” Richard asks, stopping short at Taron’s belt.

“No use,” he answers, pulling at Richard’s tshirt, up and over his head, discarding it carelessly onto the floor. “Wore this couch in weeks ago, got myself off watching Bodyguard, you’re quite good in it, did I mention?”

Richard laughs, startled and loud, and the best part is: it doesn’t ruin the moment at all. Taron loves his stupid laugh. It makes him want to do this even more. “You finally watched,” Richard says, impressed. “Using it for masturbation fodder, though, really detracts from the show's integrity.”

“Please.” Taron pulls him closer, again, by the belt loops. “As if half your audience didn’t tune in just to see your bum.”

“Merely a bonus,” Richard murmurs, and kisses him again. It takes a little bit of teamwork and effort, but they get Taron’s belt off, eventually, and Richard pulls back just enough to admire him in full. “We are one hell of a cliché, aren’t we?” He slips a hand under Taron’s waistband and Taron hisses out a breath. “Two leading men, brought together by determination and a bit too much whiskey…”

Taron licks his lips. “More like one leading man and one supporting actor with a fairly insignificant part, wouldn’t you say?” he argues, because he can’t ever help himself, but Richard just laughs again and shuts him up with another bruising kiss.

They get their pants shoved down, messily, and then Richard’s wrapping a hand around both of them, and it’s almost too much, and Taron’s digging his fingernails into Richard’s skin and thinking about how, for as close as they’d gotten, he’d had no idea it could be this good. Richard knew what he was doing, clearly, and he flicks his wrist and rubs against him in ways that reduce him to whimpers, which would be embarrassing if Richard weren’t making the exact same needy noises. Taron draws in a sharp breath when he’s getting close, says, “Richard, fuck, I’m about to—” but Richard doesn’t slow down any, locks his eyes on Taron’s, says low and deep and impossibly sexy, “Go on, then,” and that’s all it takes, and Taron comes almost at once.

Richard isn’t far behind him, and after, when their breathing has returned to normal, Richard drops down onto the cushion beside him and runs a hand along Taron’s chest. “Not bad for a casual boys night out,” he says, and Taron laughs.

“Looked a bit different than they used to, that’s for certain.”

“No complaints from me.” Richard pauses and, not for the first time, looks unsure. “And you?”

Taron props his chin up on Richard’s shoulder. “I just came all over your hand,” he says, matter-of-factly. “What could I possibly have to complain about?”

\---

They don’t ever make it to a bedroom—either of them. They halfheartedly clean up, and then lay around the sofa deep into the night, talking about nothing and everything and sharing a cigarette that they both know neither of them should have. Taron has no idea what time he drifts off, just that he’s warm and cozy with Richard’s ankles lapped over his, his fingers tracing imaginary shapes into his side.

When he wakes up, however, he’s alone. It takes him a few long, sleep-soaked moments to even process that fact, but then, all at once, he does. He props himself up on an elbow and glances around. Richard’s pants, which had been wrapped around the coffee table, were gone. His shirt, disappeared. Even his whiskey has been put away, so if he’s having a crisis of regret, he’s at least a conscious houseguest.

Taron scrubs a hand over his hair and considers. _He_ doesn’t have any immediate regrets, except maybe not hydrating enough; there’s a light headache pounding behind his temples. But if what they’d done last night was a mistake—if Richard starts avoiding him, if things get awkward right before their movie premieres—

He starts to panic, a little, at the prospect. This was not supposed to happen. It had felt so easy, and good, but—

He doesn’t have to finish that thought.

The kitchen door swings open and Richard comes striding in, looking a sight in rumpled clothing, holding two plates stacked high with food. “Morning,” he says brightly, and the tension drains out of Taron at once.

“G’morning to you. What’s all this?”

“Promised you beans and toast, didn’t I?” Richard had even fried an egg on top. It’s all Taron can do to stop from drooling. “Was supposed to be in exchange for the use of one of your beds, but we never did get to that.”

Taron helps himself to a plate, the fuller plate, and shoves a mountain of toast into his mouth. This was better than any room service he’d ever gotten. Richard drops into the seat next to him, and passes him a napkin, and Taron has that feeling, that he doesn’t get all that often, that everything he had—everything leading up to this—everything that was to come—was exactly how it should've been.

“Well,” he says, grinning at Richard, “I suppose there’s always tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you haven't seen their [carpool karaoke](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14d0LCrnPoM) yet, drop everything and go do that. and then come ship them with me. because how could you not.  
>  **edit:** ughhh it got taken down from youtube but GOOD NEWS you can watch it [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/19pfv69McFb-6NnoDTpRW5OeKyoCTHkce/view)


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